Revenge as Sweet as Honey

Oxshott, Surrey, stockbroker belt, just inside the London orbital motorway, but outside the tedious sameness of suburbia. No more urban density, no more terraced or semi-detached, but leafy lanes, big stand alone houses well set back, electronically controlled gates for access, double and triple garages, big gardens, lawns, flower beds, copses of trees, water features, big walls to keep intruders out, to stop prying eyes from looking in, big salaries to match of course, you needed those to live here.

I had her cornered. Not unpleasantly. By which I mean, not with any use of force. Maybe for her, having no escape route might not have felt too pleasant. For me, being this close up and personal with someone I had not expected to be quite this cute was perfectly pleasant, even if force had not been needed.

Having her cornered was more the result of the geometrics of the soft linen coloured, shaker kitchen, with its double sink, centre island, triple ovens, American fridge freezer and under the counter wine cooler. The electric sockets had been correctly installed a safe distance from the sink, so that the stainless steel kettle was at one end of that window wall, and that was where she had filled the cafetiere with boiling water, and from there poured the coffee into the two pure white, fine china mugs. I might have waited at the tri-fold doorway to the paved patio and the lawn beyond, where I had just been working, but instead I had strolled right over.

My standing right up close to her meant that she was trapped against the bevelled edges of the sixty millimetres thickness of speckled white, quartz worktop that went in two directions from the corner unit, where underneath there would be a pair of circular shelves that turned on smooth bearings to let you access all the way to the very back, so between those two quartz worktops she was literally cornered, while I was right in front of her, my chest no more than an inch from her cotton covered breasts.

I was close enough to smell the conditioner she used, that kept her jet black hair so lustrous, close enough to see the pure white skin line of her centre parting as I looked down at her, and to enjoy a bird's eye view of the deep valley between her breasts where neither her primrose yellow, short sleeved, Indian cotton, summer blouse, nor the top of her flower embroidered, pale blue apron hid the tempting reveal of flesh. I was going to enjoy exposing the fullness of those breasts. She was much cuter than I had imagined, and the revenge fuck that I had planned was going to be far sweeter than I had ever dreamed of.

I was close enough that she could certainly smell my own aftershave, the cologne I use lightly on my upper body rather than my face, because now that I work outdoors, I no longer need to shave, and designer stubble better fits my new role as handyman gardener, odd jobber, or however it should be defined, better than my previous life in floor to ceiling glass windowed offices. I had already worked two hours, bedding in an array of partially grown flowering plants and shrubs that would make talking points for summer garden parties with well-heeled neighbours, as they sipped chilled white wine or Pimms, and chewed on canapes, so having done that work already in the summer sun, overlaying the fragrance of my cologne, a more natural male odour would have been present, the earthy aroma that inevitably comes with physical labour in the sun. She was petite, and I am not. Her cute nose, which like her breasts was also only inches from my chest, would certainly have picked up on both my cologne, and that other, earthy fragrance.

In fact, her breasts were several inches closer to me than her nose. I was pretty sure that they were natural, and that it was not her bra which made them stand so proud. My surmise was that she was one of those women whose breasts develop at a younger age than most, not just to be fuller than so many, but to jut out from their torsos in blatant but embarrassing defiance of any force of gravity. Embarassing, because verbal barbs from other girls could be harsh and hurtful, while boys just looked in awe, or lust or lustful awe. Embarrassment comes easily to the young, but she was no longer in her teenage years, closer to thirty, a woman, not a girl. Her display of cleavage said that she was now very comfortable with those breasts.

What I needed was behind her, but instead of asking her, I just reached for it, leaning forwards, stretching my arm over her left shoulder. My chest pressed against the apron bib, and the softness just beneath. Had I still been wearing the work shirt I had travelled in, had I not left it on a rattan chair outside, the intimacy of that movement would have been so much less. Instead, it was the tanned, bare skin of my chest, softened with its dense mat of black hair, that grazed her apron front, pressing gently against the breast beneath, and it was muscular bare arm that touched her hair.

I moved the bowl with its apt single word inscription "Sugar", to beside my mug, removed the top, and spooned two scoops into my coffee. I like my coffee the way revenge is best enjoyed. I drink it sweet.

I lifted the mug above her head and brought it to my lips. I can drink hot. It tasted good. I told her so.

She looked up, nervously.

"I hope that it's okay," she said. "Can I get you a biscuit... or anything?"

Any excuse for us to move, for me to back away and set her free.

"No," I said. "I'm good."

She stayed trapped, not just by the kitchen corner and my body, but by her reserve, her inability to assert herself, even just to suggest to me that I could take my coffee outside and enjoy the shade of the patio, let alone that that was where I should have stayed, instead of intruding on her personal space. She was flustered, embarrassed by my closeness, but had no way of expressing it, or extricating herself from being cornered by a man's bare torso. To try to squeeze past me would have meant touching bare male flesh, and that was not something that she was prone to do.

Unlike myself, she had not been in the sun. Her complexion was still pure white. Green eyes, unusual in someone with black hair. Cute ski-slope nose, full lips. In spite of her neat frame, her figure was womanly, neither slim nor overweight, her hips curving nicely beneath her pure white, wrap around, calf length, waist tied skirt of light Indian cotton, her arms not toned, but nicely rounded, shapely, her legs quite possibly the same, not toned but shapely, but those were hidden by that skirt.

"You make good coffee," I said, putting the mug to my mouth and taking in some more. "What make is it?"

"It's from Waitrose," she answered, naming England's most expensive supermarket chain.

"Classy," I said. "Aren't you too warm in your pinny?"

I like to choose my words carefully. Calling it an apron would have left it just a question. Calling it a pinny was gently ridiculing it. No one needs an apron to brew a cafetiere of coffee. The gentle mockery left her momentarily speechless, a moment that I took advantage of, reaching behind her, not this time for sugar, but for the butterfly bow knot that I guessed she would have used, right behind her neck, beneath her locks of jet black hair. I found an end and pulled.

"You can't just...," she started but by then I had put down my mug and was using one hand to draw her towards me from the countertop, creating space between her and the quartz, for my other hand to go behind her waist. Another knot, another end, another gentle pull, and I removed the apron from her body.

I flattened my hand at the base of her spine, and drew her closer still. By close, I mean she would have felt my hardness, angular inside the gardening shorts that I had been wearing all that summer, but as erect as Nelson's column in Trafalgar square, standing proud for England.

Another woman might have slapped my face by then. Not this woman. She had no idea what to do. She was not used to the directness of approach that I was using and had no responses in her standard repertoire of human interaction.

One by one I eased the small white buttons of her blouse, back through the neatly stitched eyeholes, starting at the topmost. With each button, another inch or more of pure white cleavage came into view, then white brassiere, nylon, imitation lace, fine enough to let the pinkness of her areolas show through from just beneath.

That was when she struggled. It was hardly worth describing it as struggling. She twisted slightly, trying to turn her body round, away from mine, but routine spadework gives you strength, and all I had to do was tense my arm and she conceded. Looking up at mine, her green eyes told me she would not give me any more resistance.

She let me slip the blouse from her shoulders and slide it down her arms. One of my hands was still behind her, the one that I had just used to keep her where she was. I let the blouse fall from her back and rested my hand instead on her warm flesh, my fingers splayed against the ladder of her ribcage, nudging the back strap of her bra that crossed from side to side. I found the clasp and prised it open. One at a time, I drew the narrow shoulder straps to either side, to midway down her upper arms. The cups fell forwards, half on, half off her breasts, the edges of the cups resting on her nipple stubs, baring the upper circles of her areolas, the pink skin taut and shiny smooth, the areolas no less than three entire inches from edge to edge, their centres a darker shade of pink that would turn nicely red when they were abused.

As if to help me, she relaxed her arms, the shoulder straps falling with the weight of the bra cups, and she removed her arms from them as her bra came to rest between us, level with my crotch, her waist.

"Is that what you wanted?" she asked. It was not a challenge, for she was not capable of that. It was defensive, timorous, anxious that she did not displease.

I ignored the question. If she needed to ask what I wanted, she was incredibly naïve.

I cupped a breast. My palm just managed to conceal the smooth, pink areola, no more than that. There was too much breast to hold in just one hand. I had rinsed my hands beneath an outside tap, and dried them on my shorts, but they were still a workman's hands, the skin hardened by labour. She gasped. Her nipple stub felt rubbery against my palm, not a thimble nipple, as some women's nipples are, but no more than a slight protuberance at the forwardmost tip of her breast, darker in colour than the surrounding areola, and firm beneath the surface so that I could sense it pressing softly against my hand.

I had seen photographs in the hallway, of the happy couple on their wedding day, and on holiday together. One was of the wedding guests, somewhere around one hundred. The building behind the guests was Hampton Court, an expensive place to celebrate a marriage, reminiscent, for me, of beheadings, wives disposed of by an eighth Henry desperate for a male heir. There were no photographs of children. No crayon drawings in the kitchen. No infant had yet sucked on these breasts, although when the time came, they could provide milk enough for triplets, should necessity arise. I grazed the nipple's firmness with my palm, moving my hand in small circles, and she drew in her breath.

"Please!" she whimpered.

Meaningful communication requires more than just a single word. It might have been, please stop. It might have been, please do that some more. It might have been, please do even more than that. It might have been, please do anything you want to. There was no way of knowing what she wanted from that single word. I wondered if she even knew herself.

Her breasts seemed more sensitive than most, and willingly or not, her body was responding to what might be thought of as a form of male aggression. I prefer to think of it as assertiveness. I like to think I am not sexist. Men and women, both can be assertive. Both can also be compliant. Some women need assertive men, some men need assertive women. That is the way the world goes around. My assertiveness may or may not have been what she consciously desired, in her cosy world of perfect homes and gardens, but I sensed another part of her that needed, longed for, craved male domination over her, and my good deed for that day was going to be to provide exactly that.

There was one more tied bow that was not yet undone. At waist level, at her right hand side, it secured the Indian cotton wrap around skirt that was the only remaining garment that she wore. The long cotton ties were wrapped around her waist one more time that the cotton of the dress itself, but only that simple knot kept the skirt from falling to the floor. I pulled an end. The knot fell open. The ties fell. Then the skirt began to come away. I stepped back just enough to give it space. The white lace bra that, until that moment, had still been nestling between our bodies, dropped to the floor and the Indian cotton skirt tumbled with it, now a formless heap around her feet.

I would have expected white lace knickers, matching the bra, with a double thickness of fabric, silk or cotton, totally concealing her mons, and with wide sides stretched over her rounded hips, and a deep rear covering her soft butt, but there was no white lace, no cotton, and no silk. If not knickers, then at least she might have worn brief panties, still in white lace, but narrow on the hips, and baring the first inch of buttock cleft, but like I said, there was no white lace at all.

She might have preferred the greater sense of freedom of a thong, a triangle of white held in place over her mons, with elasticated string sides rising to her pelvic girdle, and another string lodged in between her buttocks, pulling down on the cross string at the back, cooler in the summer warmth, but there was not a single inch of fabric covering any part of her. She stood there naked.

In the absence of anything to shield her modesty, I would have thought maybe a copse of hair, as black as the long strands that tumbled in waves around her head and down behind her back. Maybe it would be wild, maybe trimmed a little, but unlikely to be shaved. She seemed to modest to bare herself so totally, but I was wrong.

There was not a single curl. There was no hint of stubble. I touched her there, and she was smooth as a baby. Her slit parted for my finger, and it was moist, but the surrounding skin was devoid not just of hair, but of any sign that any hair had ever grown there. There was the prominence of her mons, and there was the slit, a simple vertical groove in the mound of soft white flesh.

"You do know that women who like to be naked beneath a skirt or dress, are subconsciously hoping to be taken," I said.

"I get uncomfortable in the heat," she said, defensively.

"We wouldn't want that, would we," I answered. "Waxed or..?"

"Laser," she said. "My husband didn't like the hair."

"So no more, ever?" I asked.

"Not any more," she said.

"Does he go down on you?" I asked.

"Sometimes," was all she was prepared to give me.

"I will," I said, "before I fuck you."

"I don't suppose that I can stop you," she stared up at me, submission in her eyes.

"Would you want to, if you could?" I asked.

She went completely silent.

I picked her up. I used both hands, at her sides, just beneath her ribcage, to lift her up and over my left shoulder, her left butt beside my head, warm against my ear, defenceless against the stubble on my unshaven cheek. She was not heavy, and my biceps were more than up to lifting her. She fitted neatly, her legs held tight to my body with just my left arm holding them. At first she held herself stiffly. Then she relaxed, and her breasts pressed against my back, skin on skin, white complexioned, female flesh against the tanned muscle of my torso. It felt good, not just her warmth against my body, or her lack of struggle, but my own strength, and my hardness right by where her feet were resting level with my groin.

I had thought to use the kitchen table, but it had a fruit bowl, with apples, oranges, bananas, and even two courgettes, which I guessed were there to complement the red, orange and yellow of the fruit with a contrasting touch of green, and it had a glass covered cake dish laden with chocolate brownies, the kind that are pure sweetness without the relaxing additive that you will find in Amsterdam, and it had another glass covered dish with cheeses, camembert, cambazola, Emmental and red Leicester, and moving all of those displays of edibles would just have been a chore. Besides, I knew where there was another table that was bare, with thick, strong rattan legs and body, and a glass top inset to the rattan frame that would be tempered safety glass, and that would more than take her weight.

I carried her outside through the trifold kitchen doors, powder coated aluminium, not cheap moulded plastic, onto the paving that at that time of day was shaded by the two stories of the house itself, and that housed the rattan table and its matching rattan chairs, on one of which my shirt was still draped from my start of work that morning. This was where they no doubt ate al fresco, maybe with friends, or with their wider family.

Stockbroker belt, big houses, big gardens, not overlooked.

I lowered her carefully, butt first, onto the glass table-top, sliding her back a little, then lowering her torso. She used her elbows on the glass to support her weight and keep her back from touching.

"It's cold," she said.

The sun was blazing, and the ambient temperature, even in England, was nicely warm, even in the shade, but that was not what she meant. The glass of the table top would be cool, against her skin. Iron hard glass conducts heat better than a wooden table would have done, stealing it from warm flesh. Against the bare skin of her butt, and back, it would feel cold until her body warmed it.

"Lie back anyway," I said.

She did as she was told. She let me guide her legs, bending each of them at the knee, bringing her feet to touch one another, close up to her buttocks, and then opening her knees wide, a yoga pose, but on her back, exposing her mons and the neat groove that was her slit, and as I moved her knees apart the groove opened to display moist pinkness within, and the cute stub of her clit, peeking from within its hood.

Her arms were now resting on the glass on either side, her back flat against the unyielding surface. Her breasts continued to deny the effect of gravity. Instead of lying on her chest, they formed twin mountains, more alpine than Cotswold hills, pink topped, the one that I had fondled now a little redder than the other, both of them rising and falling with each tense breath she took.

Another woman might have used a hand to hide her mons. She left it exposed. Arms by her side, her hands palm down on the glass, she just looked at me, those green eyes apprehensive, but her body passive, subdued, accepting of her fate.

"Stay there," I told her.

Maybe finding some of my thick gardening twine and using it to tie her wrists and ankles to the table legs might have given things an erotic twist of a very special kind. It might also have relieved her conscience, since, securely bound, choice and responsibility would have been removed from her, but I sensed there was no need. Her restraints were mental, unquestioning compliance, total acquiescence, her own will relinquished, or perhaps her own deeper seated will desired precisely this. Either way, she would stay exactly where she was.

I went inside again. I like sweetness, in my coffee, or after a meal, a rich desert, or even driving with a Kojak lollipop rolling in my mouth, the stick protruding from my lips. I knew what I was looking for. The corner unit, with its turntable shelving, was a good place to start to look, but that was cans of peas, beans and fruit, and boxes and bags of cereal and flour and sugar, and not the sweetness that I sought.